A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and shared their thoughts on the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next one!
Jaccoud's wound had been bad enough for Aramis to immediately argue against the idea of traveling any further that day. Athos' jaw had clenched so tightly at the news that his friends were certain he'd have cracked teeth afterwards. Finally, after several moments that had the others wondering if the older man would explode, Athos drew a deep, calming breath and uttered a single word, "Alright."
The medic had merely given a tight nod in reply and turned back to finish tending his patient. The others had loosely gathered around the injured man, the looks of horror clear on everyone's faces at the sight of the piece of wood that grotesquely protruded from Jaccoud's thigh. At Aramis' direction, his fellow recruits had brought him back to where they'd earlier stopped to eat and laid him down flat on the ground. The medic had done a quick, preliminary check before making his demand that they stay put overnight, before taking his medical supplies from Riout and kneeling next to the injured man.
To his credit, Petit had automatically taken his place across from Aramis, his eyes wide as he asked, "What do you want me to do?"
The medic gave him a quick smile of gratitude before handing his bag over. "Get the brandy, clean bandages, and needle and thread ready while I get this out," he said, motioning to the piece of wood. He reached for his dagger, pulling it from the sheath as his back as he noted their audience. Raising his voice, he said, "I'm sure Jaccoud doesn't need all of you watching while I take care of this."
Taking his cue from the marksman, Athos ordered, "And I'm sure we're all familiar with the chores that need to be completed to set up camp." The men dispersed at once, with only the older man remaining to observe.
Aramis carefully cut through the leather of Jaccoud's breeches, gently tugging until he could examine the skin and muscle surrounding the offending twig. "This looks like it's in fairly deep," he commented, pausing for a moment to let the wounded man compose himself. "How did this happen?"
Jaccoud drew a shaky breath, every light touch even remotely in the vicinity of his injury sending sharp flashes of pain through his system. "I….I fell," he breathed out. "I tripped, and fell." He shuddered as the pain swelled once more, while fresh perspiration dotted his brow. Closing his eyes against the overwhelming sensations stemming from his leg, his missed the incredulous look that Petit threw his way, only to be wiped away a second later as the recruit caught himself.
Over Jaccoud's prostrate form, Athos and Aramis were having their own non-verbal conversation as the older man asked whether the recruit's explanation was plausible. The marksman shrugged in response, indicating that it was; the weight of Jaccoud's body against a short length of broken tree branch, sitting at the right angle, could have penetrated leather and skin, unlikely as it was. Returning his attention to his patient, Aramis placed a hand on the injured man's chest in comfort as he asked, "Are you ready for me to continue?" Receiving a jerky nod, the medic said, "Petit, I'm going to try and remove this. Once it's out, I need you to have bandages ready to press against the wound."
He waited a moment for his helper to ready himself, and then grasped the length of wood in one hand, pressing his other against Jaccoud's knee to keep him from moving his leg. "Brace yourself," he said to Jaccoud before yanking at the twig. It came out with a sickening slurp as the skin and muscle that had held it firm were forced to release their hold. The extraction was followed a heartbeat later by an agonized yelp of pain from the injured recruit.
Petit immediately shifted forward, pressing a wad of linen against the heavily bleeding wound, and Aramis laid his free hand on top of the recruit's for a moment as he instructed, "Harder. You'll need to continue pressing down on that until I tell you to stop." Petit gave a tight nod in reply, his lips pressed into a thin line, while Jaccoud panted harshly at the pain.
Aramis stood up and moved closer to Athos as he examined the stick he'd removed from Jaccoud's leg, holding it up a second later for his friend to see. "It went in quite far," he remarked quietly, as he pointed to the nearly two inches of darkly-stained wood. Turning his back on the two recruits, he lowered his voice even further as he said, "Quite remarkable that it should happen to impale him in the same spot as his previous wound."
Athos gave an imperceptible nod in reply before he asked, "Will he be fit to ride tomorrow?"
Aramis threw a quick glance over his shoulder, noting his patient's pale and clammy features, and the amount of red that had stained both the linen and Jaccoud's breeches. Turning back to the older man, he replied, "It depends. If there's no infection then he'll likely be able to manage sitting a horse. Not at any sort of speed, mind, and not for long periods of time, but it's possible. If he develops a fever…" he trailed off, knowing he didn't need to say anything more.
"Do your best with that wound," Athos directed. "I'm going to speak with Porthos and d'Artagnan."
Aramis' eyebrow quirked upwards inquiringly as he said, "Riout?"
"I haven't decided yet," Athos replied before moving away.
With a sigh, the medic turned back to his patient. "Let's have a look at that now, shall we?"
Riout's arrival had been unexpected, to say the least. While Athos and the others had outwardly welcomed the man into their midst, too many questions surrounding his arrival, fostered by a healthy amount of paranoia, left the older man unable to wholly trust the man who had been away from Paris for more than a year. Further complicating the situation was the fact that he knew little about Riout's reassignment, and was uncertain whether the man had left Paris on good terms or bad.
That Jaccoud's injury so closely aligned with the Musketeer's arrival didn't sit well with Athos either. Aramis' statement about the location of the wound only deepened his suspicions about the man, and he found himself hurrying to speak with Porthos and d'Artagnan about his misgivings. He was chagrined to find Riout heading towards them even as he closed the distance between himself and his friends. They arrived at nearly the same moment, and Athos found himself the centre of everyone's attention as they waited for him to speak.
Forcing a sense of calm that he didn't feel, he swallowed the words he'd wanted to say, and turned to Riout instead. "What is our status?"
"Lebas and Petit are watering the horses, and everyone's saddlebags have been collected. When they return, we'll need to start gathering firewood," Riout responded succinctly.
"No need to wait on the recruits to return; we can start collecting wood now," Athos replied, his order clear. The new arrival hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for the others to move, and when they did not, he offered a slight nod of acknowledgement before walking away.
The three watched Riout's departure, waiting until he was far enough away that they could speak in relative privacy. "What was that about?" Porthos asked without preamble.
"Jaccoud's latest injury is in the same place as his earlier bullet wound," Athos stated.
"What?" d'Artagnan asked, confused at how something like that was even possible.
Taking pity on the Gascon, Porthos answered, "Someone most likely helped Jaccoud acquire his latest injury."
d'Artagnan blinked in astonishment for a moment before he managed to ask, "Who?" Porthos and Athos' gaze shifted in Riout's direction, and the Gascon's eyes widened in understanding as he remarked, "But I thought you knew him? Are you saying he can't be trusted?"
The two older men exchanged glances before Athos replied, "It's hard to know. Riout was reassigned over a year ago, and his departure was abrupt."
Porthos snorted as he added, "To say the least. He was there one day, and gone the next."
Athos gave slight nod as he continued, "The Captain stated merely that he'd been sent to fortify our forces in the north, but there was no explanation ever offered supporting the need to send anyone additional."
"Plus, what difference would one man make?" Porthos asked rhetorically. "If they'd really needed more men, Treville would have sent a group of us."
d'Artagnan was nodding slowly as he processed what his friends were telling him. "And he was the one to gather the recruits when we said we wanted to leave."
Sighing wearily, Athos concluded, "And I fear that the longer we remain, the more we prolong the danger you are in."
"We are in," d'Artagnan automatically corrected, certain that if anyone tried to hurt him, his friends would immediately step into harm's way in a bid to protect him. "What do we do?"
"Our best bet would've been to ride for Paris," Porthos stated with regret, recognizing that the option had been taken away from them, at least until Jaccoud was fit enough to ride.
"What if some continue the journey and bring back help, with the rest stay behind until Jaccoud can travel?" d'Artagnan suggested.
Both Athos and Porthos vehemently shook their heads. "No," the older man replied. "How would you decide who stays and who goes? If we leave the recruits, there's no guarantee they'll be here when we return."
"Or be alive by the time we get back," Porthos added, reminding them that they still didn't know who they could trust.
"Then Aramis and I can stay here, while you and Porthos get help," d'Artagnan stated, only to be opposed again.
"And possibly leave you open to attack, and with two fewer sets of eyes to watch your back?" Porthos questioned, his tone making it obvious that they wouldn't consider that a viable option either.
"We have to do something," the Gascon declared, his voice rising as his frustration grew.
"We will," Athos replied. "For now, we wait." d'Artagnan looked ready to protest, but Athos didn't give the younger man a chance to interrupt. "We wait until tomorrow and see if Jaccoud is able to ride. If he is, we'll continue on as planned."
"What if he's not?" Porthos asked, already certain he knew the answer, but needing to hear it regardless.
"Then we reevaluate tomorrow," Athos answered, confirming the larger man's suspicion that his friend didn't yet have a plan for that contingency and was hoping it wouldn't come to fruition.
The night was an exceptionally warm one, and the heat from the campfire made it almost uncomfortably hot. With that thought at the forefront of his mind, d'Artagnan dragged the back of his hand across his brow, wiping away the sweat that glistened in the firelight. He considered removing his doublet, but none of his friends had removed their outer clothing, and if their body language was any indication, no one else was feeling the effects of the heat. Rather than fend off more well-meaning comments about his health, he decided to simply keep the garment on and hope that he'd cool off soon.
They'd eaten a sparse meal of travel rations, no one feeling overly hungry, and the dried meat and hard cheese doing little to temp flagging appetites. Riout had moved easily between both groups, spending some time in conversation with the Inseparables and the recruits, but always staying within sight and hearing range of everyone there. As d'Artagnan's gaze now landed on the man who was sharpening his main gauche, he couldn't find anything odd in his behaviour that might indicate more nefarious intentions. Abruptly, Riout looked up from his blade, catching the Gascon's eye and offering a wide smile. d'Artagnan awkwardly returned the gesture, grateful when the man lowered his gaze once more to complete his work.
He could feel another trickle of sweat travelling down his spine, the sensation making him shiver, and he wondered idly for a moment if he was really too warm or too cold instead, his body now beginning to send him mixed signals. The minute trembling of his upper body jarred his broken rib and his stab wound, and he hunched further into himself, wrapping his arms around his middle in an attempt to ease his discomfort.
Trying to distract himself from his slowly increasing misery, he shifted his gaze to Jaccoud, the recruit laying almost motionless on the other side of the fire. The man had been gray and shaking with pain by the time Aramis had finished tending to his injury, and he'd fairly inhaled the pain draught he'd been given. Since then, he'd lain in the same place, his eyes often drifting closed until he'd wake several seconds or minutes later, each time jerking momentarily as awareness returned. To d'Artagnan, it seemed that the recruit was feeling panicky, especially in the few moments that it took for him to register his location after each bout of sleep.
As the Gascon watched, Jaccoud's eyelids once again grew heavy, the time between blinks slowly lengthening while the recruit fought valiantly to remain awake. Aramis had encouraged the injured man to rest while he was able, but the recruit had merely shaken his head, his eyes haunted with some unspoken fear. d'Artagnan wondered why the man would fight so hard to maintain his hold on consciousness, when it would provide a welcome respite from the pain he had to be experiencing.
The thought brought his attention back to his own aches, his left flank almost consumed by the persistent throbbing of his injuries. He'd caught the look on Aramis' face earlier when the medic had rebandaged his wound, and had seen the momentary flash of worry that crossed the medic's face before it disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. Resting the palm of one hand over the stitches, he imagined he could feel the puckered slice pulsing as it sent hot flashes of pain through his chest and abdomen with each beat of his heart. He knew he should probably ask Aramis to check it again, but a part of him protested the idea, afraid of what his friend might find.
The low murmur of voices caught his attention, and he looked over at Jaccoud again. Aramis was in the midst of cleaning the recruit's wound, while Petit crouched at his friend's other side, looking on with concern etched on his face. Squinting, d'Artagnan noted the recruit's poor condition; apparently the man had deteriorated quickly since earlier that afternoon. As he watched, Petit lifted his friend's head and helped him drink, Jaccoud's face disappearing for a moment behind the cup at his lips. Aramis gave his helper a nod of encouragement as he patted his patient's arm and then withdrew.
Returning to his friends, Aramis caught Athos' eye as he quietly said, "He's growing worse."
"Infection?" the older man questioned, receiving a tight nod in reply.
"I don't know why it came on so quickly," the medic replied, dragging his hand through his tangled curls as he racked his brains for a reason to explain his patient's swift decline. "It's not that infection was unexpected with an injury of this sort, but I spent extra time making sure the wound was clean before I closed it."
Recognizing the signs of his friend's guilt, Porthos tried to reassure his friend. "Not your fault, Aramis. You know as well as I that sometimes there's nothing you can do, no matter how clean the wound."
"Porthos is correct," Athos agreed, hoping their combined words would convince the marksman that he wasn't at fault.
Aramis stood still for several moments, his hands on his hips, worrying his lower lip as he considered his next step. Reaching a decision, he said, "Off with your doublet, Athos. I want to have another look at your arm, and then," he shifted his gaze momentarily to the Gascon, "I'll see to yours." The older man was comfortable that his wound was healing well, but recognized that the medic needed to do this, needed to satisfy himself that neither of his friends were at risk due to his perceived incompetence.
"Very well," Athos replied agreeably, immediately shrugging his good arm out of his doublet before letting the garment fall free of his other arm. He sat quietly as Aramis prodded at the stitches, cleaning them with a damp cloth before covering them again.
"How is the pain?" the medic asked when he'd finished helping Athos back into his doublet.
"It's fine," the older man replied, holding his friend's gaze as he answered so that Aramis could see the truth of his words.
With a satisfied nod, the medic turned to the Gascon, the young man sitting unmoving in his spot. "Alright, d'Artagnan, it's your turn." When the young man didn't reply, Aramis tried again, a questioning tone coloring his words. "d'Artagnan, did you hear me? I need you to remove your doublet."
The marksman's statement finally registered, piercing the low-level buzz that seemed to have taken up residence in the Gascon's head. He gave a shaky nod as his thick fingers fumbled with the clasps on his doublet. After several seconds, he found himself unable to unfasten them, and he looked down to stare at the uncooperative bindings, hoping that seeing them would help. As his head tilted downwards, the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift. Unprepared for his sudden vertigo, his body slipped sideways, the concerned voices of his friends' following him as darkness stole his awareness.
A/N: Next chapter will be posted on Wednesday. Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.